


New York Love Confessions

by OmalleyMeetsTibbs



Series: Tumblr Posts [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24783187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmalleyMeetsTibbs/pseuds/OmalleyMeetsTibbs
Summary: John realizes he loves Sherlock. Now, to tell him.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Tumblr Posts [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782187
Comments: 9
Kudos: 66





	New York Love Confessions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [simplyclockwork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/gifts).



They had just finished up a case for an old acquaintance of Sherlock’s that led them to the United States. New York, the Big Apple, to be exact. Though John still can’t quite figure out why it’s called that. It’s neither a new version of York, nor it is a large piece of fruit. Ridiculous. He smirked at how much his internal dialogue was beginning to sound like Sherlock. 

Their flight back home wasn’t until the next day, so they decided to use these two days off as an impromptu mini vacation. John had hoped this would happen and had preemptively booked a reservation at an upscale restaurant for tonight as a surprise for Sherlock; well, and to make sure he ate during his post case refuel. The man would eat practically nothing during a case, and the only way to get him to break his fast was through comfort food or quality. Being out of their comfort zone, John knew it would have to be the latter. As it was, he lucked out; they were able to keep the reservations after all. However, the day was open, unplanned. With some quick research, Sherlock discovered a small museum exhibit dedicated to one of his childhood heroes. According to Sherlock, they _had_ to go. 

After a mildly confusing and smelly ride through the New York version of the underground, a short walk, and some guidance from bored, yet helpful attendants, they found their way to the unusual attraction. They entered a cramped fourth-floor room, tucked into the corner of the hallway. It was packed wall to wall with memorabilia. 

As Sherlock gazed at the exhibits of Harry Houdini’s locks, keys, and lock-picks, John gazed at Sherlock. The way his eyes lit up with glee, the way he bent over the glass boxes to get a closer eye on some small artifact, the way his curls bounced when he turned to point out an interesting tidbit of information. It had John hypnotized, while Sherlock was practically giddy with excitement. John was promptly informed these magic tricks had been the original inspiration behind Sherlock’s lock-picking education as a child. Barely pretending to be interested in the things around him, John watched the man in front of him fondly, infinitely more riveting. And brilliant. And adorable. And, who was John kidding, absolutely gorgeous. 

Sherlock’s enthusiasm didn’t falter the whole time they were there, several hours truth be told (and that was several hours longer than John originally thought they would be there). When they finally left, Sherlock chattered away recalling all the items they had just seen, animatedly describing everything in perfect detail—a play by play reenactment of their previous three hours. Even still, John couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed. He tried to hide his amusement at Sherlock’s overt childlike mannerisms—the skip in his step, the glint in his eyes, the animated talking, the hands flying through the air—knowing that it would be misconstrued as teasing. In reality, it just made John happy to see his…best friend filled with unrestrained joy. Most people didn’t get to experience Sherlock like this. Who was he kidding, no one got to see Sherlock like this. This was for John and John alone. He treasured these moments. 

As they made their way back to the hotel to rest before dinner, John’s steps stuttered when he realized what this was. He was in love with Sherlock bloody Holmes. His best friend. The one man he can spend all day with doing absolutely nothing of interest and have a splendid time. The one striding beside him exuding confidence and joy. John had to tell him. Tonight. Before they returned back to London and he lost all gumption. 

When they entered the hotel, John informed Sherlock of their reservations, keeping the location a secret. He knew Sherlock would be cross if John didn’t at least inform him of the expected dress code. After preventing Sherlock from deducing the final location, John decided to take advantage of their separate rooms because hopefully, after tonight, there wouldn’t be a need for that anymore. Even if Sherlock wouldn’t, couldn’t return the sentiment, John needed to tell him. He couldn’t hide it anymore now that he knew what it was, nor did he want to. He was in love with Sherlock Holmes. John wouldn’t let that fact take away their friendship, but he secretly hoped that after this, there wouldn’t be a friendship to ruin. A smirk played at his lips as he thought that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock felt this way too. 

By the time they reconvened, John was showered, shaved, suited, and shaking. His nerves were starting to creep up on him. But he was a former soldier, a captain, a surgeon; he could confront his feelings, couldn’t he? After shaking out some of his nerves, John rapped his knuckles on Sherlock’s door, waiting for him to appear. When the door swung open, John inhaled sharply through his nose, and his jaw involuntarily dropped open. The bespoke suit hugged Sherlock's body perfectly, accentuating his thin waist, broad chest, and shapely thighs. His curls hung loosely across his forehead and the nape of his neck. The softness of them called to John’s fingertips, but he resisted reaching out to touch them.

Sherlock looked down at him then, with a cocked brow and mirth in his eyes. Coughing into a fist and shuffling his feet, John regained his composure. He took a moment to steel himself and, straightening his shoulders, he offered the pale-in-comparison compliment: “You look nice.”

“So do you,” came the breathy, yet sonorous response, enveloping John in its warmth, a hint of something John couldn’t quite identify hidden in its depth.

Taking a step back from the vision in front of him, John swept out his arm and nodded in the direction of the elevator. “After you.” And, damn, was that the right decision, John thought to himself as he watched Sherlock walk down the hall. Those legs and the curve of that ass. With a slight shake of his head and a calming breath, he followed. 

By the time they finally finished ordering and started into their glasses of wine, John’s nervousness had returned ten-fold. With all his fidgeting of the wine glass and the utensils, the clenching and unclenching of his fist, his increased breathing, Sherlock must be able to tell something was going on. But John can’t tell for sure because, at this point, he was having trouble even looking at Sherlock for any length of time, let alone into his piercing, knowing, blue eyes. He took another sip of his wine, and as he put it back down onto the table, John let his gaze catch a glimpse of the man before him. That is when he realized his mistake.

Sherlock was sitting ramrod straight, watching John from behind a guarded expression. He must have assumed John was going to give him bad news or didn’t want to be seen with him or…perhaps Sherlock had guessed properly and didn’t want John to say anything. Not good. He would have to have courage, for the both of them. They needed this out in the open one way or another. However much John wanted this to be done right, it didn’t matter now. It was already mucked up, and it was up to him to fix it. The best way to do that was to just say it, lay it all out there. So with a deep breath, he began. 

“I was going to wait until we at least had our food…”

Cutting him off, Sherlock swished an impatient hand through the air, keeping a stern face and monotone voice, all emotion held at bay. “I don’t need to hear you tell me that this was our last case together. I can see it written all over your body language.” His brow scrunched together as he considered John. “You are nervous being around me, though I don’t know what’s changed to make that an issue.” Sherlock’s hand shook slightly as he picked up his wine glass to swirl the contents, averting his gaze. “I assume you’ll want to move out of Baker street as soon as we return to London. I’ll have Mycroft help with that so you don’t have to be burdened with my presence longer than you must.” His eyes flicked up before darting away again. “I’m sorry to part ways with you, but I understand. You’ve finally had enough, and…”

The monologue had caught John unawares, sending him reeling for a moment until he could regain his footing. When he realized the absurd man had misinterpreted everything, John practically shouted at him, “What? No! Sherlock, stop. You’ve got it all wrong.”

With a scoff, Sherlock said, “Me, the most observant man in the world, misread your obvious nervousness? I don’t think so.” With small shudders of the glass, Sherlock raised the wine to his lips and took a shaky sip.

John pinched the bridge of his nose, pressing his lips into a thin line. After a deep breath, he looked up at Sherlock, who was again avoiding his gaze. Bollocks. With another breath for bravery, he reached out to take Sherlock’s rapidly tapping fingers and said, “Hey. Sherlock. Look at me and listen for a sec, ok?” 

Sherlock glanced down, wide-eyed, at the hand covering his own before looking up. “John?” he asked brows furrowed, but eyes open, hopeful. 

“You’re right; I was, am, nervous. But you got the reason all wrong.” John’s tongue darted out to wet his suddenly dry lips. “I didn’t know how badly I wanted, needed to tell you this until I was watching you today in the museum. But you need to know.” He gave a small squeeze to the hand he was still holding. “I _want_ you to know. For how much I don’t want this to ruin our friendship, you deserve to know, to hear it.” John took one last breath before diving in. “I’m in love with you. Have been for a while now, to be honest. And even if you can’t or won’t or don’t want to respond, it’s fine. It’s all fine. I just needed you to hear it from me.” With that, he looked down at his empty bread plate, not able to keep looking at Sherlock. He gave another small squeeze to the hand below his and then began to withdraw. 

A quick turn and delicate fingers grasped his wrist. John looked down at their clasped hands, palm to palm, and then back to Sherlock. There he found eyes glittering with joy, and a small, true smile sitting hesitantly on Sherlock’s face. 

“I do too, John.” The words were said in the same voice that had surrounded John in the hallway of the hotel, full of what now John realized was a hint of desire. He blinked, brows furrowed, silently asking if this was real. 

Ducking his head slightly, catching John’s gaze intimately with his own, Sherlock repeated, “I do, John. I love you, too.”

At that, a grin broke across John’s face, a high-pitched giddy giggle sneaking past. “That’s the best thing I think I’ve ever heard.” 

“Me too.” 


End file.
